


Just a little Mystrade to pass the time

by ankheclipse



Series: The Fall Chronicles. [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-06 09:22:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1852822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ankheclipse/pseuds/ankheclipse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft serves Lestrade dinner. Will seduction ensue, or will Lestrade shun Mycroft's advances?</p><p>Set in a modern day-fantasy AU which I will be adding to in the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just a little Mystrade to Pass the time

Lestrade wasn't used to having dinner with people. Certainly not on a balcony overlooking gorgeous countryside, or with another man, or with a bottle of expensive wine sitting empty next to them. But for all the firsts, he was having a good time. It could have been the wine, but he didn't care. Anything that made him forget about his divorce and job for a few minutes was a welcome addition to his life. 

“You seem to have enjoyed the pasta.” Mycroft said, taking a small bite off his half empty plate. Lestrade looked down at his own plate; the only thing left of the delicious meal was a few breadcrumbs. “It was really...quite good.” he said with a smile.  
There had been a salad made from baby lettuce that Mycroft had snuck from the garden. He had insisted that the gardener, Luke, wouldn't notice, yanking up a few radishes while he was at it.  
“I didn't know Alfredo sauce could be so delicious.” Lestrade said honestly 

“Obviously you aren't eating at the right establishments.” Mycroft answered, wiping his mouth and taking the last sip of wine. He looked at Lestrade and thought about not saying anything about the stray dab of sauce on his lip, but couldn’t help it. “you have a bit of….” he motioned to his mouth, “Here.” before he could resist, he reached out and lightly wiped his finger across Lestrade’s lip. Lestrade choose this exact moment to flick his tongue out to remove the offending morsel. And as lust would have it and you can imagine, his tongue hit Mycroft’s thumb, missing the intended mark altogether. Despite looking utterly shocked, Lestrade didn’t move.  
Mycroft didn't mind, and let his thumb linger on the shocked man’s lip a moment longer. “More wine?” he said, a coy smile hinting at his mouth. 

Lestrade could feel his stomach tightening and he hoped his hands weren't shaking. “There...isn't any more.”

“Well, there is a whole cellar.”

Not knowing what else to do, or say, Lestrade stood up, “I’ll fetch some.”  
Even as he walked down the hall he wasn't sure if he wanted to bring another bottle of wine, or go to his room, lock the door, and forget the situation had happened.  
But he soon found himself in the wine cellar, staring blankly at the dusty bottles, half forgetting why he was there. A slight clicking in the hall caught his attention. Men’s dress shoes on a tile floor.

“Did you get lost?” Mycroft’s soft voice was directly behind him, and Lestrade could hear a smile in his words. 

“I was just deciding.”

A long arm reached beside him, close enough to have been his own, and Mycroft’s chest brushed against his shoulder. He pulled a particularly dusty wine from the shelf,

“How about this.”

Lestrade tried to focus on the label being held before him, but it was difficult when all his senses were focused on Mycroft’s gentle breath on his neck. He finally managed a nod and continued to stand facing the wine. He felt equal parts trapped and aroused, but confusion was quickly overwhelming those emotions. 

“I want a beer.” he thought aloud. I don’t want any more wine…

He needed something familiar. He hadn't drank wine in years, and he could feel it tickling his brain. He knew he could drink as much beer as he wanted, and his judgement would never be impaired. And he was quickly realizing he couldn't say the same for wine.  
“Then what are we doing in here?” the question was a whisper and Mycroft slid the bottle back on the rack. 

\--

Mycroft kissed his shoulder lightly, breathing in Lestrade’s scent. He smelled of cigarettes, but not the expensive ones he was used to smoking. Something cheap and common. The smells of dinner lingered on his shaky breath and Mycroft could almost hear the excuses forming in his mind. He put his hands on Lestrade’s shoulders, kissing the back of his neck. He wished there was something he could do to relax his partner. Lestrade twisted his head trying to say something but Mycroft met him with a kiss. After a moment, Lestrade straightened his body until he was facing the man kissing him. He didn’t dare open his eyes, fearing Mycroft would read his thoughts. Thoughts of running away. Thoughts of shoving Mycroft away and never seeing him again. He held onto his fearful thoughts, knowing that if he didn’t, he would feel comforted by the man. And he didn’t want that. 

Mycroft’s large hands were impossibly smooth on his face and he felt incapable of resisting. He shuffled backward, hoping Mycroft would stay put and he could leave, but he felt the back of his legs hit the bedframe. He would have sat down hard, but Mycroft caught him. 

He hadn’t known that Mycroft was strong enough to ease him onto the bed, but unexpected seemed to be the theme of the night and he allowed himself to be laid down. The pillow smelled like cinnamon and Mycroft. Somehow comforting.  
He had just begun to relax when Mycroft kissed his shoulder, slowly making his way to his back. Lestrade was almost on his side when a switch flipped in his mind. He panicked and slammed himself back on the mattress. “I don’t want to.” he said, trying not to hyperventilate. He shook his head frantically, groping for his shirt, which had somehow been taken off. “No. I don’t want..”  
Mycroft placed a finger on his lips, “I won’t.” he said simply with as much consolement as he could muster, propping himself up next to Lestrade. The Inspector looked so frightened, so vulnerable; and despite Mycroft’s sardonic and aloof exterior, his soul was caring and gentle. He was also a problem solver and he looked at Lestrade logically for a moment. The look he had mistaken for sexual fear was actually fear of losing control. Fear of being taken advantage of.  
Mycroft twisted himself around until he was on his back, pulling Lestrade on top of him. His blue eyes were dark in the shadows and he unblinkingly stared at Lestrade.  
“Don’t do anything you don’t want to.” he said calmly before smiling, “or, alternately, do whatever you like.”

Lestrade chuckled nervously and looked in his eyes. Somehow it was easy to look at him, but not easy to do without smiling and he was certainly the first to blink. Knowing that it would have been alright to lay his head down on the man’s freckled chest and go to sleep, somehow freed him. He kissed Mycroft. Not timidly, or gently, but passionately. He tossed Mycroft’s undershirt onto the growing pile of clothes and linked their fingers, pressing Mycroft against the fluffy pillows.  
Anyone watching certainly wouldn’t have known that Lestrade had never been with a man before, and Mycroft didn’t bother asking. Lestrade flipped the light off, but the moon was full and light poured in, illuminating their faces in exaggerated shadows. He let his hands move over every part of the taller man’s torso. Mycroft was leaner than he had thought, and stronger. A cool breeze wafted over them, but Lestrade’s heart was beating too quickly for him to get chilled. Mycroft arched his back under Lestrade’s touch, audible breaths escaping with every new pressure point that was found and exploited. Once Lestrade dropped his inhibitions, he thoroughly enjoyed finding what made his stoic partner moan. Sensuality was an art he thought he had lost, but Mycroft clawing at the sheets and draping his legs over Lestrade’s shoulders proved otherwise. Lestrade hadn’t noticed that most of Mycroft’s height had come from his legs, but when they were wrapped around his neck he certainly realized.  
Mycroft’s touch was gentle, but effective, and although the nagging feeling of confusion remained, Lestrade ached to experience everything he had to offer. 

\--

Breathless, Lestrade let his head rest on Mycroft’s chest. Finally relaxed, he allowed himself to be embraced. He didn’t bother reaching for his cigarettes, a testament to his satisfaction. Mycroft kissed the top of his head lightly and pulled the quilt over them. He had noticed that the window was slightly ajar and knew the cool breeze would cool their damp bodies quickly. He wanted his lover to stay, and knew that if he got up for anything, reality would set in and he would leave.  
Lestrade never felt restful in strange beds, but the sheets were smooth against his bare skin without being cold. His body pressed against Mycroft for warmth as the cool air tickled his face and two arms pulled him closer, safer.  
He hadn’t felt truly comfortable or fulfilled in years, and the feeling had a soporific effect on him. He was asleep within moments and Mycroft smiled at his accomplishment. The moon was bright enough that he could see the peaceful look on his sleeping face. Lestrade was already in a deep sleep and Mycroft reached for his lighter and a cigarette. As he carefully drew a breath so as not to drop embers on Lestrade, he mused over what their relationship would be like. Or if Lestrade would wake up and come to his heterosexual senses. Either way, he had been wonderfully pleased with the evening and he wasn’t going to let the thoughts of tomorrow ruin his current elation. After snuffing out his cigarette he turned his head, resting his cheek on Lestrade’s forehead, and fell asleep.


	2. Sex or Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade wakes up next to Mycroft. Learn a little about Lestrade's life. Start of fandom crossover!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally added this chapter as the next part of the series...But here it is, as a chapter!

Lestrade woke up slowly, eyes languidly blinking until he was awake. In his drowsy state, he felt comfortable, warm, and safe. As though the past year had been nothing more than a bad dream. He shifted his weight slightly, pressing his back against the warm body behind him. For the briefest of moments, he thought he was back at home, nestled in bed with his wife on Sunday morning. Then in the corner of his eye, he saw the masculine hand resting on his arm and the previous night came flooding back to him.  
Like a punch in the gut, he remembered getting drunk. He closed his eyes, thinking of the things he had done by the light of the moon.  
He had become unaccustomed to silently sliding out of bed, and he hoped his skills weren’t too rusty. Mycroft’s arm was heavier than he anticipated and it was difficult to move without the mattress making small noises.  
Mycroft was a light sleeper and the first creak woke him from his slumber. Lestrade froze, hoping he wouldn’t wake up, but the previously limp arm pulled him closer and Mycroft greeted him.  
“Good morning.” he yawned, nuzzling Lestrade’s silver hair and stretching his legs. 

“Good morning.” Lestrade tried to sound as calm as possible. Maybe he could just get up to ‘brush his teeth’ and then leave…

“Did you sleep well?”

He opened his mouth to give a monosyllabic answer but realization flooded his words, “I haven’t slept that well in years.” He said truthfully. 

Mycroft’s smile was audible and he kissed his shoulder lightly, “I’m glad.” he reached over Lestrade to adjust the alarm clock, “Oh it’s 6:30...bother.”

Lestrade wasn’t sure if that was early, or late for the man, “Is that...good?” he knew he was generally not awake at 6:30 if at all possible. 

“I was hoping to sleep in a bit.”

“You still can. Just go back to sleep.”

He yawned again, “I might do. Where are you going?”

Lestrade slipped his pants on, “To….use the toilet.”

\---

Lestrade stared at his half naked frame in the mirror, clashing emotions fighting for custody of his mind. He felt disgusted with himself. Disgusted that he had enjoyed himself so thoroughly. Annoyed that he had been so easy to seduce. Afraid that someone would find out. Sad that his wife had never been able to make him feel the way Mycroft had.  
“Maybe I just need a shower.” He said to his reflection. 

The dried sweat washed down the drain easier than his feelings of shame and he pumped shampoo into his hand, lathering his hair vigorously. The hot water felt good on his aching muscles and he just stood there, head against the tile, eyes closed, letting the water hit him. 

-

Mycroft turned over in bed and stretched his limbs. His feet hung off the end of the bed and his hands wrapped around the headboard slats. All the clothes were in a fairly neat pile but he grabbed a robe and padded barefoot down the hall. Tendrils of steam escaped from under the bathroom door and he poked his head in.  
The smile on his face and witty comment on his tongue quickly turned to concern. Lestrade was sitting in the stone shower, arms wrapped around his knees. His body was shaking with quiet sobs and Mycroft figured he should just leave, but his curiosity was piqued and he closed the door quietly behind him. Kneeling beside the shower, he pulled the sheer curtain away slightly, “Gregory?”

The weeping man was shocked and quickly rubbed his hand across his wet face, “What are you doing in here?”

He ignored the question, “What’s wrong?”

“Just leave me alone.” He turned away. 

Mycroft swallowed the stream of questions building up in his throat and stared at the man. Even though he had only known him a week, he could tell what kind of man Lestrade used to be. The carefree attitude and flirtatious remarks may have become a farce to mask sadness, but he knew they were part of his personality. What had happened? “What did she do to you?” He muttered. His arms ached to hold the man, to comfort him, but he knew it wasn’t his place. 

“What?” he sniffed

“What happened?”

Lestrade’s face was incredulous, “It doesn’t matter now.” Anger took the place of sadness and he narrowed his eyes, “And it’s none of you business!”

“I know. But, if you need to talk to”

Lestrade interrupted him, “Talk?? What is the point of talking?” He spat the words like poison, “Talking has never done me any good!” Sobs cracked his bitter words and Mycroft listened solemnly, knowing he wasn’t angry at him, “Me talking didn’t stop my wife from cheating on me! And it certainly didn’t stop her from getting pregnant!” He laughed maniacally, “And do you know the best part? She never wanted kids! I did!” He jabbed his chest with an outstretched finger, “I was the one that wanted kids! Not her….” It’s not fair… 

His shouts gave way to more overdue tears and he buried his face in his hands.  
The pitiful sight yanked on every rusty heartstring Mycroft possessed and he climbed, satin robe and all, into the shower, gathering the sobbing man in his arms and holding him tightly. 

“No. No!” Lestrade writhed out of his slippery grasp and shoved him against the wall. “No! Don’t you dare pity me!” He hit him again, “Don’t you dare…”

Mycroft grabbed his wrists, “Stop! Gregory! Stop!” He wrapped his arms around Lestrade’s torso, pinning his arms to his sides, “I don’t pity you.” he said in his ear, “Just stop, please.”

Lestrade tried his utmost to get away from Mycroft, but his boiling emotions had left him weak and finally went limp in his arms. He had never been cradled so tightly or so lovingly. The few times he had cried in front of Rachel, she had laughed and told him to man up. Mycroft didn’t try to sooth or shush him, and he wept wholeheartedly. 

Mycroft was inexperienced with comfort. He had never been comforted, and his own attempts had usually been met with terror or mockery. The mix of emotion from Lestrade was altogether foreign to him. Never had he felt such grief and anger, but instead of making him uncomfortable, it intrigued him. Lestrade’s crying had subsided a little, but he still clung to Mycroft.  
Generally, Mycroft would have some degrading comment to make, but when he was with Lestrade, he felt speechless. Sarcasm was the only language he felt fluent in, and when there was no place for a snide comment, he felt dumb. “Do you want some breakfast?”

“Why are you being nice to me?”

The quick reply startled Mycroft, “I…” don’t know…

Lestrade sat up and ran his hands through his sopping hair, “I just want some coffee.”

The scene before Mycroft was classic and picturesque and he watched with hungry eyes as the Inspector stood up and stepped out of the shower. 

Suddenly self conscious, Mycroft stood up and turned the water off. Looking down at his drenched robe, he reached for a towel. My towel is around Gregory’s waist…he thought, “Hand me a towel, would you?”

Lestrade spat toothpaste into the sink, “Where are they?”

Mycroft pointed to a linen cupboard above the toilet, “In there.” He’s using MY toothbrush?

Grabbing a towel, he tossed it at Mycroft, “Don’t bother with coffee. I’ll just get some out.”

Mycroft had stepped behind the corner of the shower to dry off, so Gregory didn’t see the look of disappointment. “Are you sure?” he had never enticed someone to stay for coffee...and the words felt strange leaving his mouth. 

Lestrade smiled, the response was exactly what he wanted to hear and he stepped back in the shower. “Are you asking me to stay?”

He quickly held the towel to his hips, “Perhaps.” 

“I didn’t know you could blush.”

When the fact was pointed out, it didn’t help subdue the red twinge on his ears, “It’s not something that frequently happens.”

Lestrade pushed a ginger curl behind Mycroft’s flushed ear and tilted his head coyly to the side, “You are a mystery, Mr. Holmes.”

“One that you are willing to solve, I hope.”

The answer came in the form of a soft kiss and a nudge backward. The stone in the shower was smooth, but uneven and jabbed into Mycroft’s back as Gregory kissed him. Lestrade laced his hands through Mycroft’s hair, tipping his head back and pressing his mouth against the exposed neck. The skin around his throat was soft and he pressed his tongue against a throbbing vein. Mycroft had a flash of going to work covered in welts and pulled away, “No. Don’t leave a mark on me.”  
Lestrade grinned and put his mouth to his ear, “Wear a scarf.” he said. Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, but forgot what he was going to say when Lestrade wrapped his teeth around his shoulder and clamped down hard. He shouted in pain and shoved him into the opposing wall, The pain did nothing to phase Lestrade who seized his wrist and gave a yank. His knees crashed into the shower floor and he looked up at Lestrade through narrowed eyes. Lestrade raised an eyebrow and walked behind the kneeling man. It wouldn’t have been wrong to say that Mycroft felt uneasy about what is partner was going to do, and his sarcasm returned, “What happened to your inhibitions from last night?”

Gregory kneeled behind him, pressing his chest into Mycroft’s back and kissing his ear, “I chucked them out the window.”

Breath caught in Mycroft’s throat as he was bent forward. Lestrade’s heart raced as he pushed himself inside his lover. His nails weren’t long, but Mycroft’s skin was tender, and Lestrade left red trails across his back as he thrust forward.  
Mycroft found it easy to adjust to Lestrade’s rhythm and it wasn’t long before he felt like he was going to break in two. Gregory was not a gentle lover, and left nothing to be desired physically. 

Lestrade bit his lip, trying not to moan. He felt weird being loud during sex, but it was a losing battle and he gasped for breath as he reached his climax. Mycroft obviously didn’t feel the same way, and left Lestrade with no confusion about his satisfaction. 

When he was done, Lestrade wrapped his arms around his partner’s chest and held him close. Mycroft could feel Gregory’s heart beating against his own spine, and it took several minutes for it to regain a regular cadence. 

After a quick rinse they put some proper clothes on and Mycroft went into the kitchen. The coffee bean grinder startled Lestrade and he watched in fascination as Mycroft prepared the drink in a French Press. The ground beans swirled gently downward as he poured the near boiling water into the glass flute and slightly depressed the plunger. “Does it make a better cup?” Lestrade leaned on the bar, watching Mycroft pull breakfast foods from the fridge.  
Mycroft shuddered to think what swill Lestrade had been drinking, “If you don’t know the answer to that, then it will, undoubtedly, be the best cup of coffee you have ever had.” 

Lestrade rubbed his hands in anticipation. The aroma of the beans was certainly tantalizing.  
Mycroft managed to whip up a hearty breakfast and Lestrade leaned back in his chair, hands on his stomach. “Wow...that was incredible.”

Mycroft smirked and brought the plates to the sink, “Do you have plans for the day?”

Lestrade started to shake his head no, but was interrupted by his phone vibrating against his leg. Who the hell is texting me on Sunday?

new text from Donovan:  
Will has escaped. Need you at station asap. 

“Fuck all!” he jumped up, “I have to go.”  
Thoughts raced through his mind.  
“What happened?” Mycroft asked, moving out of Lestrade’s shot to the door. 

“Someone escaped.” he darted into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He wouldn’t have time to take a piss at the station, so he knew he would have to do it now. As he washed his hands, his wedding ring glinted in the light.  
Even amidst the whirlwind of thoughts related to work, he was able to separate his personal life and he took the ring off, setting it on the counter.

He wrenched the door open and grabbed his coat, “I’ve gotta go.” he said, leaving Mycroft standing in the kitchen, still in the dark.

“Goodbye.” Mycroft said, after the door slammed.

Curious, he pulled his phone from his pocket and typed a quick message to Anthea.  
Who escaped?

The response time was superhuman,  
Will Graham. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes, slipped the phone back, and went to the bathroom to collect the laundry. Something caught his eye and he picked up the ring from the sink ledge.  
The inside wasn’t shiny enough to have been pulled off constantly, and Mycroft knew it wasn’t an accident that it had been left. An unintentional smile tugged at his lips and he put the ring in his pocket. 

The smile stayed with him all day, causing his overactive imagination to stray from the macabre, and into the romantic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End notes:
> 
> Thanks for reading! I will be adding to this story frequently.  
> It is set in an AU where Crossover Fandom is King! The Universe is set in London, and is most like the BBC Sherlock universe. The storyline will also pull heavily from Sherlock. 
> 
> If you are a:  
> Sherlockian  
> Whovian  
> Fannibal  
> Supernatural fan  
> and/or fond of random pairings and ships...
> 
> ...then you should check back to see if any of your favourite characters have made an appearance! I will be pulling random characters from TV shows/movies periodically, but not necessarily staying true to their "mother media" or "real background". 
> 
> If there are characters that you would LOVE to see make an appearance, leave a comment below! :D
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


	3. The Napoleon of Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How does Moriarty deal with his lover's past? Does he approve of the company he used to keep? And will he help Hannibal?
> 
> Meet Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, James Moriarty, and Sebastian Moran.

“Will, are you listening?” Hannibal asked. 

Will Graham stared out the window, watching tiny drops of rain gather on the window. They landed on the glass individually, joined forces, and then becoming too heavy, would fall. 

“Will.”

“I’m listening.” he said calmly without looking away from the window. 

“What are you going to do?”

“What choice do I have?” A melancholy tone played at his voice. He knew he was going to jail. He couldn’t hide in his psychiatrist's spare bedroom forever. Sooner or later, the cops were going to come calling, and he would be a prisoner. 

“Do you trust me?”

The question forced Will to face Hannibal, “Would I be here if I didn’t?”

Hannibal shrugged, “Possibly. Trust is a funny thing.”

Will thought for a moment, “I do.” He wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to trust in Hannibal, but he didn’t have a choice. The psychiatrist smiled slightly and pulled his phone from his pocket. His fingers flew across the keyboard as he responded to a text.  
“I am meeting a friend for dinner. I would invite you...but…” he smiled

Will turned back to the window. “Have fun.”

Hannibal stood in the doorway for a moment, the sarcasm ringing in his ears. He didn’t know very many men that could get completely lost in their own thoughts, and he found it fascinating. No doubt Will was mentally standing in a river, hipwaders on, fishing pole in hand. 

He pulled his coat tight over his shoulders and adjusted his crisp sleeves before walking out the door. The rain was just a slight drizzle, and he didn’t bother with an umbrella. If he couldn’t stand a little rain, he needed to reassess his life. 

____________________

Sebastian Moran flicked his phone OFF and stuffed in the back pocket of his jeans. “James. Want to have dinner?”

“Sounds boring.”

Moran chuckled, “I promise you. It won’t be boring.”

James Moriarty had his nose in a book and was slightly perturbed that his lover had interrupted him. “The food better be damn good.” he flipped a page. 

Moran took the book and placed it on the coffee table, not before sliding a bookmark in. “And the company will be better.” He winked.  
Moriarty liked to think of himself as a spider. The chief manipulator. The most dangerous man in London...or the world, for that matter. Yet he was constantly falling for Moran’s charm. “You will be the death of me.” he mocked. 

“Your ego will be the death of you.”

Moriarty hardly had to move his spine for his palm to slap across Moran’s face.  
“Your skin is tender for such a tough man.” He said, eyebrow up, “I can see it turning red already.”

Moran stretched his jaw. “Everyone’s face turns red after they have been smacked.”  
He was used to punishment after living with Moriarty for 7 years and the violence was hardly shocking. 

“I wouldn’t have to punish you if you didn’t continuously irritate me.”  
He refused to voice any stronger emotion than “irritation”. Moran figured it was fear of weakness, but he never said THAT out loud. 

“It’s a fantastic, private place.” Moran said, “I think you will like it.”

Moriarty stood up and buttoned his suit coat. “Doubt it.”

The two men were quite a pair. One short, one tall. One that refused to dress up, and the other that refused to dress down. But they both looked fantastic in Moran’s car, driving just over the radar toward a part of town that shouldn’t have been frequented at night.  
Moriarty raised an eyebrow and lowered his sunglasses, staring at the “restaurant”. “What the hell is this place, Moran?”

Moran got out the car, opening the door for his boss. “Just give it a chance. They have great biscuits.”

It was going to take something more than “Great biscuits” to wipe the frown off Moriarty’s face and he followed Moran grudgingly.  
The waiter silently led them to a table. And as if to further Moriarty’s foul mood, another man turned around, already sitting in the booth.  
He was a tall, stately looking gentleman. Impeccably dressed and slanted smile. Under any other circumstance, Moriarty would have been pleased and intrigued to find out more. “Moran. I thought you said this place was private. Who is this?”

Sebastian smiled and shook the standing man’s hand, “It’s wonderful to see you again, Hannibal.” He said genuinely, “This is my...roommate, James.”

Hannibal smiled politely and stuck out his hand, “A pleasure.”

Moriarty sat at the table, “The pleasure’s all yours.”

A smile flashed across Hannibal’s eyes and he instantly imagined the man twined with a little rosemary. 

Moran rolled his eyes. “James...Hannibal needs our help.”

Moriarty sniffed the wine and wrinkled his nose, pushing it across the table and motioning a waiter. “That so?” he said distractedly. 

“We knew each other long ago.”

He was handed a wine menu and continued ignoring the boring table chatter. 

Hannibal watched James with microscopically narrowed eyes. Examining him. Wondering why Sebastian was so attracted to him. He hadn’t spoken to Moran in years, but he still knew how to read him. Moran had been the most interesting thing to come out of Hannibal’s experience as an Armed Forces Psychiatrist. 

“So what is the ‘dilemma’ you talked about?” Moran sipped his water, trying to get Hannibal’s cannibalistic eyes and attentions off of James. 

“It’s my friend, and patient, Will Graham. Have you heard his name in the papers?”

Moriarty instantly chose a wine after hearing Will’s name and put his chin in the small of his hand, suddenly interested in what this strange man had to say. 

“Ya, the guy that ate someone’s ear? Or something.”

Hannibal knew better than to be offended that Moran didn’t even mention all the genius murders, “Amongst other things, yes.”

Moriarty smiled sleepily, “That is so sick.” as though the murders and ear amused him. 

It was Moran’s turn to ignore James, “What of him?”

“The police are about to close in on his location. And he will be put in a mental institution.”

James rolled his eyes, “Why do we care?”

Moran took the wine from the waiter with a smile and nod, speaking after he had left, “And you don’t want him to get caught?”

“Obviously not, I don’t need people prodding around in his brain.” Hannibal accepted the first glass and enjoyed the first sip before continuing with his explanation. Which, to him, was seeming more like a sales pitch than a friendly conversation. “Also, he is fragile.”

“Indeed.” Moran knew there was more to the story, far more than he would ever get from Lecter, “So you want him to disappear?”

“We can do that.” Moriarty chimed in cheerily. 

“Yes and no. I want him safe. Not dead, but gone.”

Moran knew that Hannibal cared about this Will Graham person, “Otherwise you would have taken care of it yourself.”

Hannibal remembered that Moran occasionally only said half a sentence and answer, “Yes. I would have. But I need it done a bit more….cleverly.”

Moriarty could practically feel the hands stroking his ego, but he didn’t care, it was working. “Where is he?” He traced the rim of his glass with a finger and looked up. Maybe he would just kill Will, to be done with the whole thing. What was another enemy? He knew Hannibal had a wonderful intellect, and he wouldn’t have minded challenging it. 

Hannibal ignored the question and took a bite of food he didn’t remember ordering. Luckily, it was delicious, “So what do you have in common?” he said, looking at James. 

“We...enjoy each other’s company.” Moriarty remembered Moran referring to him as a “roommate” and decided to continue the farce. 

“And that’s all? You just ‘enjoy each other’?”

Hannibal could tell by their faces that they were not going to offer up any more information and he leaned back. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to pry it out of you. I know that Moran would never spill a word of his lover’s secrets.”

Moran flinched when he said ‘lover’s’, as if he thought he had been fooling Lecter. 

“And you,” Hannibal turned to James, “You look like a man that knows how to play the game.”

“And what game would that be?” James couldn’t help smiling

“Any game you wish, I imagine.”

He wasn’t wrong, and it intrigued James that someone had come right out and said it. Most people didn’t speak their mind in front of him, and he found life’s sham bothersome. He had often wondered if he would ever meet his equal. And while Sherlock was proving an interesting adversary, he wanted someone that shared his sentiments of the world.  
“I recreate the game. So I can play it over and over.”

Hannibal chuckled into his carefully held wine glass, “You seem a good sort, though.” he paused a moment, “Good being relative, I suppose.”

The gaze James had locked on Hannibal was unwavering, and most people would have found it unnerving. Hannibal found very little unnerving, and it was going to take more than a stare to make him enjoy his food less. 

“When are the authorities going to find him?”

Hannibal winced at the taste in his mouth and pushed the appetizer away. The first few bites had been delicious, but as he tasted the layers, it was becoming less appealing and he decided to wait for the main course. “In the morning I suppose. It’s only a matter of time before the authorities find where I have hidden him.”

“Which is where?” Moran asked, finally joining the conversation. 

“The spare room in my house.”

James flicked his wrist at Moran, “Sebastian, you should get moving.”

Moran shoved a monster mouthful of food in his mouth, much to Hannibal’s disgust, and walked out. “Just like that, eh?” Hannibal remarked, watching Moran walk out. He was like James’ pet, Painfully obedient and ready to pounce for his master. 

James smiled, knowing he had Hannibal’s attention.  
“He is obedient, because my demands are very logical.”

“And because he loves you.”

Moriarty tried very hard not to look taken aback. The man’s brazen words were equal parts true and terrifying, and he wasn’t sure if he liked or resented Hannibal for speaking them. He decided that continuing to stare at Hannibal was his best option, as though staring into the hard brown eyes long enough would reveal the secrets behind them. 

Hannibal began dissecting the dinner that was set in front of them, “Do you think of him when making a decision? Or is he merely a pawn?”

James’ heart skipped a beat, he loved being caught off guard. The psychiatrist was obviously at the top of his field for a reason; he had only known James for 10 minutes and already he knew more about him than Moran did. “I don't have time for trivial things like caring, he does what I tell him, and he keeps my secrets.”

“Is caring so trivial?”

“It’s dangerous.”

“Oh I don’t know about that.”

“We have learned different lessons from life, it would seem.”

“Or...we have learned the same lesson, and chosen to apply it differently.”

“Perhaps.” James rolled a cherry tomato around his tongue before squashing it mercilessly between his sharp teeth, “But that is assuming that the lesson is what’s taught, and not what’s learned.”

Hannibal raised a glass, “Cheers.”


	4. MorMor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Hannibal's request for their help, Moran goes to fetch Will Graham.

Moran quickly navigated the streets to Hannibal’s house. It was a quiet neighborhood and he glanced at the surrounding windows for prying eyes after he parked the car. Everything seemed pretty sleepy, and he wagered that in an area so posh, no one bothered looking out the windows when they could block out the world with silk drapes. Such rich areas often unnerved him. The people seemed fake to him, they held their money and titles over others, living privileged lives without consequence. Hannibal had left the front door open, probably didn’t want Moran to mess up his locks. His soft shoes hardly made a sound as he crept through the house. There was something unnatural about the decor, but he couldn’t figure out why. His own apartment wasn’t exactly cozy, but the doctor’s house was unsettling. 

A soft patter of feet pricked Will’s ears up and he stood slowly, not wanting to alert anyone of his presence. The footsteps did not have the same cadence as Hannibal’s and it sounded like someone sneaking around. He opened the wardrobe and stepped inside, closing it and relying on his ears to tell him what he wanted to know. It didn’t sound like the police, there weren’t enough footsteps, and they would have knocked first. So far, no one suspected Hannibal of anything, so there would be no need for them to break into his house. He wished Hannibal hadn’t “gone to dinner”. 

Moran saw the depression on the bed slowly filling in and glanced for the best hiding place. Will Graham didn’t seem like the sort to carry a weapon, despite his alleged actions. He stood close to the wardrobe, placing a hand on one of the mahogany doors.   
“Will, I’m not here to hurt you.” he said

Will’s eyes widened, and had Moran been able to see his face he would have seen the incredulous look that was so typical of Will. He didn’t care that the man wasn’t here to hurt him, he still wasn’t going to come out. 

“Exit the closet.” Moran said, stepping away and placing a hand on his pistol. 

There was no humor or time for dillydallying in the man’s voice and Will slowly opened the door, stepping out with his hands barely above his shoulders.   
“Who are you? Who sent you here?”

“Hannibal sent me, If you want to remain a free man, come with me quietly.” He answered plainly, ignoring the bit about “who” he was.

“Hannibal? Where is he?” Will would have felt much better had Hannibal been beside him, not galavanting around town. 

“There is no time for that now. Follow me.”

Will did as he was told. He was already a fugitive from the law, and he figured it couldn’t get much worse.   
Moran held the door open for Will, thrusting a pair of sunglasses at him. “Put these on.”  
Again, obedience. Moran sped through the streets, taking turns that Will could feel, but no longer see. The sunglasses weren’t just dark, they were blackout and he could hardly tell it was daytime. 

“How did you get out of police custody?” Moran asked 

“I don’t know.” Will said honestly, “One minute I was handcuffed to a hospital bed, recovering from a sedative, and the next I was laying in Hannibal’s guest bed and he was feeding me chicken soup.”

“He seems like a very resourceful man.”

“He is. Why are you helping him?”

“I owe him a favor.”

It sounded like Hannibal. Will was fairly certain that he had people stashed all over the world that “owed him favors”.  
Will felt the car slowing down and learned that the sound of a garage door is so much more intimidating when one can’t see it. They continued driving slowly, and Moran finally parked the car. “You can take the glasses off now.” 

Will whipped them off, taking a deep breath and trying to get his claustrophobia under control. He didn’t like the lack of control he felt, and as common a feeling it had become, he still hadn’t gotten used to it. “Where is Hannibal.”

“I don’t know.”

“I thought you said he sent you.”

Moran looked at him, eyebrow up, “That doesn’t mean I know where he is now.”

They walked through a parking garage until they reached a private flight of stairs. Moran quickly furnished a key and led him up, letting the heavy door slam behind them. 

“Is there anyone else here?”

Moran chose to ignore his constant stream of questions and unlocked another door that led to an apartment. Once Will had walked in, he locked it again and slid the key into his pocket.   
Will noted that all the locks were keyed access only. No easy flip of the deadbolt. And certainly no way out if the formidable man in front of him didn’t allow it.   
Will watched him walk into the kitchen and open the fridge, staring inside as though food would appear. It seemed the perfect time to look around, and he saw another man walking down the stairs that led to a large loft. He was instantly on guard and took a step back. 

“Good evening!” the man said, an Irish accent hung on his languid words

“Hi.” Will answered. 

The man continued to walk past him, “Don’t frighten yourself, I’m not the bad guy.” He said with a smile, pinching Will’s cheek on the way by. 

Will pulled away, “Who are you?”

“Jim.” he said from the kitchen, “And don’t get snappy, you are in my house.”

Will shut his mouth. 

Moran motioned for Will to follow him up the stairs while he munched on an apple. “Come on, I will show you where you will be staying.”  
“Who is that?”

“My flatmate.”

“Shall I put the kettle on?” Jim said loudly. 

“Ya, fine.” Moran shouted back and walked up the open staircase. 

Will felt dizzy walking behind him and tried not to look down. “What is your name?” he asked again. 

“Sebastian.”

The loft turned out to be a couple different rooms and a bathroom, and Will sat on the bed he was led to. It wasn’t soft, or overly comfortable, but he didn’t dare mention anything. There was a pile of blankets and sheets on a chair. Will wondered how long they had been sitting there, waiting to be put back on the bed since their last washing. 

“Thank you.”

Moran walked out and Will heard him shouting down the stairs, “I want coffee though, not tea!”  
He didn’t look American, but his accent told Will that looks could be deceiving. He looked around the grey room, wondering how long he would be here. What Hannibal’s plan was, or if he had one. The small room suddenly felt very large and lonely and Will tucked the sheets into place, trying to preoccupy his mind. 

James handed Moran a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter, closing his eyes in a rare moment of admitting fatigue. Moran planted a kiss on his lips and sat crosslegged on the floor, stretching his back and neck, “God, I’m so achy.”

“I hate houseguests.” James said suddenly, “That means we can’t shag on the kitchen counter.”

“No it doesn’t,” Moran smiled, “He’s a big boy, he can close his bedroom door. But,” He put a hand, warmed from his coffee mug, on the back of his neck, “I feel like a shower and some morphine, not a shag.”   
James wrinkled his nose at the distasteful idea and watched Sebastian walk into the bathroom, coffee in hand. He sipped his own chamomile tea contentedly and stood in the bathroom doorway when he heard the shower turn on. Watching his lover shower was a nice, relaxing end to his day. 

“Get me some morphine, would you?” Sebastian said, lathering his hair with the new shampoo James had purchased when they were out of town. “And don’t lace it with anything!”

James smirked as he walked down the hall. Like he would ever lace Sebastian’s painkillers with anything experimental...Pfft, the very thought was scandalous.   
He set the syringe on the bathroom sink, “It’s just on the sink out here.”

Sebastian reached a hand around the shower curtain and grabbed the syringe, “It hurts now, not in a minute.”


	5. Mormor quickie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James follows Moran to the shower.   
> Just a short chapter.

James Moriarty watched his partner jab the syringe into his skin. The relief from the pain was not instant and he gripped the bar in the shower while it took effect. Moriarty often wondered why he didn’t inject it directly into his vein, the scars be damned, but Moran was worried about looking like a junkie. He preferred injecting it into a muscle and waiting a few minutes for it to kick in. The perfectly chiseled muscles in his body tensed against the pain, trying to seek relief from the hot water that momentarily pounded against them before running onto the tile shower.  
When they bought the apartment, the shower had been a plain, plastic affair. Moriarty had torn it out straightway and ordered the beautiful, imported tile that Moran was leaning against. The tile reminded Moriarty of sex and he frowned, remembering that Moran had said he wanted to shower alone.   
“Feel better?”

A grunt was the only answer he got and Moran didn’t move except to let the water hit his face. Moriarty was sure the man was part fish as he watched the high powered water jet onto his face. It ran out his open mouth, and onto the small scar that James had given him. A small M he had carved into Moran’s chest one night with a scalpel. It had healed perfectly, and Moriarty was secretly proud of his handiwork. They told each other it stood for Moran, but they both knew the truth. It was more permanent and easier to explain away than a wedding ring, and there was something morbidly sexy about Moriarty stamping him as property. 

Moran could feel James’ eyes on him and he tried to hide his smile. He had Moriarty wrapped around his little finger in the bedroom. Nowhere else did anyone have such power over James, and it made Moran feel powerful to think James had chosen him as a lover. He had no idea how many lovers James had, but he shared his home and life, and that was enough for him. “What are you looking at?” he said

“Just a sculpture.” 

Moran rolled his eyes and laughed at the cheesy line, “You might want to fire the sculptor, his work of art is falling apart.”

“I’m the sculptor.” 

Moran turned around, his Morphine finally kicked in and he pulled back the shower curtain invitingly. Moriarty quickly shed his suit and walked toward him, not minding when Moran wrapped his hand around his throat and pulled him in for a kiss. Moran was much taller and physically stronger than he was, and easily picked him up and pinned him to the wall.   
Moriarty wrapped his legs around Moran’s waist, trying to draw his body closer. His lungs were soon compressed between his lover and the shower tile, and he tried to get a breath. He was engrossed with exploring Moran’s neck with his tongue when suddenly Moran’s leg moved out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor. He winced at the pain momentarily before Moran shifted him to the corner of the shower and pumped some conditioner on his own hand. Moriarty’s breath caught in his throat and his eyes rolled back in his head when Moran’s strong hand touched him firmly, encouraging his erection. Moriarty leaned his head out of the water so he could enjoy his lover’s touch without drowning and noticed the water level was rising in the shower. He tried to shift his body off the drain, but Moran held him down and continued working. James wasn’t used to being the first one pleasured, and it took him by surprise as much as it thrilled him. Every stroke was perfectly timed and he dug his nails into Moran’s thigh for support.   
Moran watched James’ face twist in pleasure as he knelt over him, the control he had over Moriarty had a lurid appeal to him and he quickened his rhythm. He knew James was trying to rush his orgasm, in case Moran lost interest and walked away. Tonight Moran had no plans to leave Moriarty wanting, but he would let him beg.   
Moriarty groaned and whimpered when Sebastian stopped and loosened his grip slightly, “No, no, no, don’t stop.” his face became pleading and he reached his arms toward Moran, “Don’t stop.”   
Moran pushed Moriarty’s hands away and smiled, quickening his pace once again. 

Moriarty laughed a breathy, maniacal laugh, knowing he would be allowed to finish. Itt didn’t take Moran anytime at all to bring him back to his previous ecstasy and Moriarty thrashed at him, sending droplets of blood to mix with the overflowing water. His head thrashing from side to side and he begged his lover not to stop.   
Moran pleasured himself using nothing more than the sounds of his breathless, writhing lover, and joined James in clouding the water with their seed.   
Moriarty raked his hand down Moran’s chest as he gasped for breath, a final, failed attempt to cause Moran pain before he finished. Moran stroked him until he came and then dropped his throbbing member unceremoniously. He stood up and turned the shower off, leaving Moriarty in the corner gasping.   
“Thanks for helping Hannibal.” Moran said over his shoulder, throwing a towel around his waist and walking out, leaving Moriarty limp and shivering, clothed in nothing more than water droplets and sweat.


	6. To Catch a Cannibal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John get a visit from the Inspector and Mycroft.

Sherlock Holmes draped his legs over the end of his armchair, head leaned against the other arm, fiddling with some paper. “John.” He said, trying to get his flatmate’s attention and failing. “John.” he raised his voice slightly.   
“JOHN.”

John Watson closed his eyes and the fridge simultaneously, he didn’t like being hollered at, or called like a dog, “Sherlock, I am standing right here. You don’t have, to shout.”

Sherlock stopped texting and looked up, “Oh, why didn’t you answer?”

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

“There is about to be someone at the door. I think it’s Lestrade.” He rolled his eyes at the confused look on John’s face. The overly gregarious steps coming up the stairs obviously belonged to the Detective Inspector, and not to Mrs, Hudson, who was late with the afternoon tea. A loud rapping on the door forced John to action and he tried to block out Sherlock’s shouting, “Who is it?” 

“Greg! Come in.” John stepped out of the way, letting the detective in. 

Sherlock wrinkled his brow in confusion, wondering how he could have been wrong about Lestrade, “Who is it?” who is Greg? he wondered. 

John followed Greg Lestrade into the living room where Sherlock looked up, a shocked look on his face.   
“Oh Lestrade.” Sherlock said. “What brings you to Baker street today?”

Lestrade opened his mouth to catch his breath and started his sentence, “I need your help, Sherlock, “

“a criminal escaped and you think I can find him?” Sherlock sounded bored and continued to fold the paper into tinier and tinier sections. 

“...a criminal…..well, yes, how did you know?” Lestrade was always flabbergasted by Sherlock’s instant deductions. 

“Who was it?”

“Will Graham.”

Sherlock’s eyes rolled back into his head and he sighed, “Oh, the man who ‘didn’t do it’?” he quoted Will’s defense, “Wonderful.” He continued sarcastically. 

Lestrade watched the consulting detective snuggle deeper into the couch and cover his face with his hands. “Sherlock?!”

Sherlock heard the faint patter of Mrs. Hudson’s shoes, weighted down slightly. Tea time. He sat up quickly, and Lestrade smiled anxiously, “Do you know where he is?” Lestrade said expectantly, figuring he had already solved the crime. 

Sherlock moved some papers from the coffee table, making way for the tea tray, ignoring Lestrade and his boring request. 

“Oh Greg darling!” Mrs, Hudson set the tray down, “Would you like some tea? I made plenty.” 

“No thank you, no time I’m afraid.” Greg tried a smile, still watching Sherlock intently, certain that he was going to blurt out an address or something. Anything. 

“Sherlock!” John suddenly voiced his building annoyance, “Are you going to answer Greg?”

Sherlock still wasn’t sure who this ‘greg’ fellow was, or why everyone kept confusing Lestrade with him, but he shoved the idea from his mind to make way for new thoughts.   
“Hmm? What? Oh,” he waved his hand dismissively, “Ask the psychiatrist.” he nibbled a biscuit. 

“What’s all this about?” Mrs. Hudson asked. 

Lestrade crossed his arms, “We already did. He doesn’t know anything.” he turned to Mrs. Hudson, “Nothing to worry about.” 

Sherlock interrupted his consolement with the harsh truth, “Lestrade has lost a cannibal.” 

Lestrade set his jaw, equally from irritation and shame. “We’re going to find him.” 

“Oh dear.” Mrs. Hudson said, stirring the sugar into Sherlock’s tea, “What a frightful thing. Cannibalism!” she shuddered

“Honestly, Mrs. Hudson! If you could stop dawdling about!!” Sherlock raised his voice again. 

Mrs. Hudson jumped and narrowed her eyes, “You could take some lessons from Greg here!” she said, hurrying out. 

Sherlock resumed his repose on the couch, but instead of paper, he held tea. He could tell Lestrade was still looking at him, and John expected answers, but that meant little to him. There was another problem niggling at his mind, and he couldn’t be bothered with Lestrade’s misplaced cannibal. A car door closed carefully outside followed by the unmistakable triple click of Mycroft’s shoes and umbrella combo. An unpleasant rapping at the door made Sherlock want to take his tea and crawl under the couch until his brother went away. John walked to the door, flinging it open to greet another guest. His mouth opened to let out a greeting, but closed again when he recognized the squinting, older Holmes brother. 

“Good afternoon, John Watson.” he didn’t bother being invited in, and waltzed past the annoyed man.   
“Greetings, bother!” he said before rounding the corner and noticing Lestrade. “Greetings, Inspector.” he said, less jovially. 

“Mr. Holmes.” Lestrade dipped his head in an awkward greeting nod and turned back to the younger Holmes. 

Mycroft sat in John’s chair and poured himself some tea. “Nice day, isn’t it.”

“Small talk isn’t your strong suit, brother. What do you want?”

“Oh, I just came by to have tea.”

Lestrade interrupted the brotherly banter, “So, Sherlock, any ideas?”

“Oh for the love of God.” Sherlock snapped, annoyed that his brother had walked in, “What do you want me to do about it? Go Walk the streets?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows over his teacup, “Well that would be quite the profession swap.”

“Oh for fucks sake.” Lestrade threw up his hands and headed toward the door, “Never mind. I’ll find him without you.”

Mycroft raised the cup to his lips again, although the taste of the tea was second to the enjoyment of watching Lestrade leave. He knew that Sherlock would be too busy with the case to notice anything odd about the way he was watching Lestrade, and continued to use his teacup as cover.   
Mycroft’s continuing downfall was the underestimating of his little brother. Sherlock watched Mycroft’s eyes following the Inspector out the door, blinking only when the door slammed behind the man. He found it very curious, and slightly unsettling that his brother was looking so predatory toward Lestrade, but set the thought aside for another time. “What are you doing here, Mycroft??” he demanded, 

“Are you going to get involved in this case of the missing cannibal?”

“Maybe.” Sherlock didn’t look at his brother, preferring to pretend he wasn’t sitting in John’s chair. His voice got snarky, and he glanced at John, who was just standing awkwardly on a spare space of carpet, looking around. 

“You might not want to get involved in that one, Sherlock.”

The idea that his brother didn’t want him to get involved, coupled with the fact he had driven all the way to Baker street instead of texting, intrigued him. It also fueled the curiosity and fire to take the case. 

John had been frowning since the word ‘cannibal’ and decided to interject his thoughts, “Cannibal, eww.”

“Thank you for stating the obvious, John.” Sherlock said and turned to his brother, “I’ll get involved if I damn well want to.”

Mycroft pursed his lips momentarily and stood up, “Well, Cheerio, John. Sherlock, do stay out of trouble.” His umbrella swung from his fingers as he walked across the floor and closed the door quietly. He knew he could still catch up to Lestrade if he hurried, and ran down the stairs in as dignified a manner as he could muster. Luckily Lestrade wasn’t in a hurried mood, and he caught up quickly, hardly out of breath, “You know he will help you.”

“I just hope that will be enough. This is a giant cock up.”

Mycroft struggled to keep from smiling at the phrase, “Yes it is.” he thought about trying to console his lover about the issue, but it wasn’t really his style, “You better hope that Sherlock can get you out of this one.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. (Just get away from me)

Mycroft stepped up to his car and turned to Gregory, “Good luck with your Cannibal.”

“Ya.” he tried to stay calm, but all he really wanted to do was punch Mycroft for being such a patronizing bastard and tell him to go to hell. 

Lestrade felt angry and alone as he watched Mycroft’s dark car drive away. His own car was parked down the block a little ways and he walked slowly, trying to collect his thoughts. He was embarrassed that he had let Will Graham slip right through his fingers, and he couldn’t fathom how he had managed to slip out of the hospital. All he wanted to do was curl up in bed and forget the whole thing. Giant fucking mistakes like this made him wish he could take a job as a trash man. 

\--

Sherlock heard Mycroft close the car door and leapt out of his seat, “Want to find a cannibal??!!” an excited gleam in his eye. 

John sighed to mask his enthusiasm, and Sherlock interrupted him. “John, get out of your trance, do you want to find a cannibal or not?”

“Fine, ya. Of course I do.”

Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and text someone while getting his coat. 

“What are we going to do?” John asked, looking around the messy living room for his shoes. 

“Find a cannibal. Only...not the cannibal you might expect.”

“Can you not speak in code?”

“He didn’t do it.” Sherlock saw John’s shoes under the couch and turned his collar up. 

“Will Graham isn’t the cannibal?” John was thoroughly confused, both about the cannibal and his shoes. 

“Obviously not. He’s probably a vegetarian.” Sherlock chuckled, waiting for Watson to find his shoes. “No, he isn’t a vegetarian. But he isn’t the killer either.” He couldn’t let his sarcasm go without correcting himself. Just in case John didn’t realize it was sarcasm and took him literally. 

John rolled his eyes and finally spied his shoes, slipping them on quickly. 

“Get your coat, come on.” Sherlock was ready to go, and had grown bored with waiting.

He threw his coat on, following Sherlock down the stairs. Although he refused to skip down them as cheerily as Sherlock did.


	7. Mytheory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Mycroft and Anthea talking. 
> 
> Join Watson and Sherlock as they tour Hannibal's house. :)

Mycroft looked calmly out his car window, watching Gregory drive away. He expected him to make a quick turn around and head back to the station, and was slightly shocked when he continued into traffic, disappearing into the sea of cars. “Anthea,” he said, “Where is Lestrade going? Not back to the station, obviously.”

Anthea’s fingers continued to fly across her keypad, the ever present half smile on her lips, “He’s probably taking Sherlock’s lead.”

“Sherlock went the other way.”

She didn’t have to look up or acknowledge Mycroft’s statements in order to know where the Inspector was going. In fact, she never had to look up from her phone, and she still saw more than the Holmes brothers combined. 

Although Mycroft would never admit it, it was her keen senses that had been so attractive to him. He knew she had been something special since the first moment he saw her. And although she and Mycroft were both (arguably) more observant than Sherlock, they were far too complacent and lazy to do anything about it. Their low effort, high profile jobs suited them perfectly and they couldn’t be bothered with the puny affairs of the lowly. 

“This is a dangerous game that Lestrade is playing.”

The sense of concern was out of character and her eyes glanced up for the briefest moment, “You’re worried about him.” She stated

“Yes.” he admitted, “He’s getting tangled in a web. A fight that he is not prepared for or skilled enough to fight.”

“He might surprise you.”

Mycroft’s eyebrow told her that he doubted it, and she smiled. She didn’t care about the well being of the Inspector, but she found it interesting that Mycroft had taken such a fancy to him. 

“He doesn’t see the world like we do.”

“That works in his favor” She added

“Sorry, I’m just muttering to myself.”

By all outward accounts, she seemed to stop listening. She had known Mycroft long enough to know when he just needed to talk but didn’t care about the other side of the conversation, and she just listened. He didn’t know how to have a conversation about his feelings, and he wouldn’t ever have let on that he cared. Not even to Anthea, the only person he ever to included in his musings.   
Sherlock was the only other person he had ever truly cared about

 

\--

 

Sherlock knew he wasn’t supposed to go inside the houses of suspects...but Lestrade had made it fairly clear that he didn’t think Dr. Lecter was involved in the cannibalism, so he didn’t see any harm.  
As he walked toward the house he wondered if John saw it as foreboding. 

“Do you see this house as intimidating, John?”

Watson looked up. The brown brick cupped tall windows and the roof was quite steep. “It doesn’t look like a nice place.”

“I think it looks like a nice house.”

“I wasn’t talking about the aesthetics of it. I meant...it just has a weird feel about it.”

Sherlock glanced up at the portico, raising an eyebrow. “It does seem a bit…austere. 

John nodded, “Are we...supposed to be here, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock continued walking and put his hand on the doorknob, “I don’t see why not. We are just here to look around.”

“Isn’t he home?”

“No. He hasn’t picked up his mail yet.”

John often went a couple days without picking up the mail, and didn’t find it to be a good indication of someone being home or not. The knob turned easily in Sherlock’s hand and John followed him in, glancing behind him as he closed the door. “I hope the neighbors didn’t see us.” 

”Let’s at least hope they didn’t see you snuffling about like a guilty hedgehog.” Sherlock ignored John and began looking around. He didn’t care about a cannibal wandering around town, he already knew how this case was going to end, and the lack of intrigue bored him. “I don’t feel like looking for clues.” He pouted, “I already know he did it.”

“Sherlock, the court doesn’t care that you know. They want to know how you know.”

“Bother.” Sherlock walked into Hannibal’s dining room, glancing all around. The fresh plants that grew on the the wall were unusually healthy for living in such a dark room. He looked at the pristine fireplace and the long table. All ten chairs were identical, but Hannibal’s chair was apparent. It sat at the head of the table and was much more worn than the other 9. Many of the chairs at the opposite end of the table were hardly worn at all (Used?).  
“This is magnificent.” Sherlock said

“It’s not about the interior design, Sherlock. What are we looking for?”

Sherlock hadn’t been talking about the design, in fact he had hardly noticed it. He was talking about the complete cleanliness around him. Not a stray hair, not a misplaced fingerprint, or even a small coating of dust on the mantle. He walked into the equally clean kitchen and opened the fridge. Gingerly, he held out a bag, the look on his face was of pure disgust. “Who...eats this?”

Watson snatched the bag from Sherlock and stuffed it back in the fridge, “It’s kale, Sherlock. Focus on the case.”

“Kale” didn’t look appetizing, and he hoped Mrs. Hudson never put it in front of him, touting that she had ‘read about it in a health magazine, and you should really eat some, Sherlock, it’s healthy for you. you need to eat your greens.’. 

“I don’t see anything.” Sherlock slammed the fridge. 

“Were your instincts wrong?” Watson could hardly believe he had heard those words come out of Sherlock’s mouth. 

“Of course not!” he scoffed, “Don’t you see? I...don’t see anything. NOTHING. Which means.” He walked over to a platter of cake and removed the lid, “The game is on.”

John closed his eyes in disbelief, the size of his partner’s ego was astounding. 

CHOMP. Sherlock took a triumphant bite of cake, leaving a few crumbs on the spotless counter. 

“What are you doing!!!!” John shouted

“It’s quite good….no?” Sherlock shook his head slowly, and put the half eaten cake back. 

“It’s not yours!”

“Right.” He put the lid back on, brushed a crumb from his scarf, and continued pacing around. “We need to find where he went. He can’t just be ‘gone’.”

“Wait…” Watson got the lightbulb-behind-the-eyes look that irritated Sherlock, “The psychiatrist is the cannibal?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Yes.”

“You already knew that?”

“Of course.” Sherlock shrugged

“You just ate his food! That was probably person!”

Sherlock ignored John again, “Don’t you see, It’s beautiful. He chose Will Graham to take the fall. So that he could continue living this life.” He gestured all around him, “Which also means…” He furrowed his brow, suddenly confused by the evidence, “Why is Graham gone? Why is he not in prison? How did he escape?”

It was John’s turn to shrug, “Because they had a shit security detail on him at the hospital?”

“He was supposed to take the heat for Hannibal’s crimes...Something went wrong. Hannibal is smart, he wouldn’t just leave something like this to chance.”

John was used to being ignored while they were on a case and busied himself looking around. The house was splendid, although the grace and grandeur was slightly spoiled with Sherlock’s “What went wrong what went wrong” wafting through the house.   
He found a small chest of drawers in a hallway, and opened them out of curiosity. He expected to find the usual forgotten papers or odd trinkets one usually finds in random drawers. But this was no ordinary house, and no ordinary man lived there. A small, leatherbound sketchbook sat in the middle drawer, which was flanked two empty drawers.   
Three perfectly sharpened pencils were the only company the sketchbook had and Watson opened it gingerly. What he saw inside made him hurry back to the kitchen. Sherlock hadn’t moved from his path, and Watson was certain he didn’t realize he was saying “What went wrong” over and over. “Sherlock.”

“Sherlock, I found something.”

Sherlock scrunched his face up and didn’t stop pacing, “What could you have (possibly) found?”

Although Watson’s intellect had been insulted again, he held out the sketchbook, “Look at this.”

“What’s in it?”

“Were they in love?”

“Don’t be absurd. How on earth does that make sense?”

John didn’t let Sherlock shut him down so quickly, he had learned it was actually a compliment that Sherlock had questioned him. “It makes sense though...Maybe he had intended for Will to take the fall, but, he realized he couldn’t go through with it.”

Sherlock stopped pacing and held perfectly still, a grim and slightly disgusted look on his face. 

“If he loved Will, of course they would both disappear. Maybe Hannibal thought he was saving them.”

Sherlock was disappointed about the prospect that Hannibal’s plan might have been spoiled by emotions. “Where would they go...Assuming your idea has any merit.”

John sighed slightly, his moment in the spotlight had obviously come and gone, “I don’t know. Somewhere safe? That’s your forte.” Sherlock still hadn’t taken the sketchbook, and John stopped extending his arm. 

\--

Sherlock and John walked through the Police Station, making a beeline for Lestrade’s office.   
Sally Donovan had already been talking to the inspector, and peered out the window. “Boss, the freak’s already here.”  
Lestrade’s face lit up and he whirled to face the door, “Sherlock! What did you find?”

“Get her out of here.” Sherlock said flatly

“She’s fine.” Lestrade tried to smooth the hatred between the two of them whenever possible. “What did you find?”

The shocked look that Sally had acquired when Sherlock demanded she leave was replaced by pure smugness.   
Sherlock continued to stare at Donovan with narrowed eyes until Lestrade took a deep breath, “Sgt. Donovan, a moment please?”

Sally once again wore the shocked/offended expression as Sherlock donned the smug face. “Fine.” she flounced out, being sure to slam the door. 

“Alright, Princess,” Lestrade put his hands on his hips, “What did you find? Where is he?”

A quizzical look passed over Sherlock’s face. John wasn’t a princess...what on earth was Lestrade talking about? “I don’t know. He has already left.” he realized Lestrade wasn’t following him, “The doctor, he’s the one you want (As I said earlier), Hannibal is the one you want. And he has already left.” He noticed the blank look coming over Lestrade’s eyes again, “What?”

“You...you don’t know where he is?” A curious smile took over his face. 

“I dont’ know yet. I could know, I just don’t. At the moment.” he frowned, not liking it when lesser beings called him out. 

“Still, it’s a first!” The smile didn’t leave his face. It had begun to annoy Sherlock a few moments ago. John watched his partner turn on his heel and walk out without further ado. He sighed and followed him out of the station.   
Sherlock put his collar up once the outside air hit his neck, “We need to find the doctor.”


End file.
